Alan Hunter - Gently where the roads go

‘Well, fancy,’ Withers said. ‘You could be right, too, Jonesie.’

‘Would you remember any names?’ Gently asked.

‘Gracious no,’ Jonesie said. ‘There’s no remembering Polish names. It takes a Russian to pronounce them.’

‘Nothing like Teodowicz or Kasimir?’

‘Nothing half so simple, sir. But you could get on to Records at Ruislip, sir, they’ll probably still have the documents.’

‘They will indeed,’ Withers said. ‘This is becoming ultra-absorbing. I think you should talk to our peelers, Superintendent. I feel you’re going to have a lot in common.’

‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘where shall I find them?’

‘In the stores, where else,’ Withers said. ‘I’ll take you over to them now. Before they go to tea, or something.’

Thursday, five-forty-five P.M. A faint breeze across Huxford airfield. A breeze smelling of sun-dried grass, tansies, one hundred octane and glycol. An arid breeze, spreading the heat collected over the plane geometry of the runways, scarcely lifting the flaps of engine covers or moving the vane above flying-control. Around the perimeter, cycling figures in oil-stained working-dress uniform, soiled webbing side-packs slung over their shoulders, dope-painted mugs clinking on their lamp-brackets; cycling wearily round the great circumference, all proceeding in one direction; converging into groups and a steady stream past the guardroom, towards the domestic sites. Two NCOs stepping briskly. An officer, keeping his eyes to himself. A clay-daubed Works amp; Bricks truck with navvies sitting on a plank in the back. The tea-time exodous at Huxford, draining personnel from A to B, leaving here a clerk, there a duty man, whose chits had been honoured by the mess earlier. And in the guardroom four SPs. And in the stores, two other men.

The stores was a long, wide Nissen building with khaki-washed plastered ends; having in each end green-painted double doors and at one end a yard enclosed with steel mesh netting. There were notices pinned to one of the doors announcing a clothing parade and details of boot repairs, signed: A. L. W. Sawney, WO, i/c Stores, and incorporating a warning about sabotaged garments. The name appeared again painted on the door opposite, and once more, on a board, on the office door inside. The store interior smelled of concrete dust and leather. Apart from the slab-walled office it was open down its length. Facing the door was a wide counter, beyond it tall ranges of metal rack-shelves, against each wall steel lockers, open crates and bins. The smell of leather came from piles of boots which lay strewn on the floor, a ticket tied to each pair.

Withers led in, and into the office. It was a small room cluttered with metal filing cabinets. At a desk sat a bold-faced man in rank uniform noting details from some forms on to a sheet of paper. Beside him, on his knees at a filing cabinet drawer, a flight-sergeant was staring at some forms out of a file.

‘Squadron-Leader Campling,’ Withers said. ‘This is Superintendent Gently of Scotland Yard. He’s making inquiries about the death of that Pole, and it seems likely that they may coincide with your inquiries.’

Campling looked at both of them without saying anything for a moment. He had brown eyes under thick brows, a straight thick nose, a dimpled chin. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He rose and stuck out his hand. ‘I heard you were down here on the Teodowicz case. I didn’t think I was going to meet you.’

Gently shrugged. ‘Teodowicz was killed with a Sten gun,’ he said. ‘We naturally want to know where it came from, and Huxford is nearest and handiest.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Campling said. ‘Are you having any luck?’

‘Not as yet. But I’ve a feeling that I’m getting quite warm.’

Campling said: ‘Hah,’ and exchanged looks with the flight-sergeant. ‘I think you’re more than warm,’ he said. ‘I think you’re smack on the target. Brennan,’ he said to the flight-sergeant, ‘show the Superintendent what we found. It did flit through my mind that there might be a connection.’

Brennan got up off his knees. ‘Out in the store, sir,’ he said. He opened the counter-flap, turned right, went down the aisle next to the outer wall. A bored-looking corporal lounged in the aisle, a cigarette concealed under his hand. He winced slightly and vanished among the rack-shelves, leaving the smell of cigarette smoke behind him. From across the store came the gulping sound of someone pouring liquid from a Thermos.

‘This is it, sir,’ Brennan said, stopping at a gap between two lockers. ‘You’ll notice how the curve of the Nissen wall leaves a space behind these fixtures. There was a dump of obsolete gas equipment in this gap, stuff that ought to have been returned to Central Stores, and we just happened to move it, out of curiosity, and this is what we spotted behind a locker.’

He pointed to a small, stout wooden case which stood on the floor between the lockers. It was about twenty inches by twelve, had two rope handles, was painted with a green wood preservative. On the lid was roughly stencilled: STEN MK II 6 AM.

‘What’s inside it?’ Gently said.

Brennan reached down, lifted the lid. The lid had originally been nailed into place but it had been prized up and stood loose on the nail points. The case contained five guns, two above, three below; a number of long, narrow magazines; and the space for a sixth gun.

‘Any ammunition?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes sir.’

Brennan opened the door of a locker. He removed a number of empty cartons from the lowest shelf, and finally an unpainted wooden box. In the wooden box were three cardboard boxes and in each cardboard box two fibre cartons. The cartons each contained 250 rounds of 9 mm rimless (Sten) ammunition. There was a fourth box. This was empty.

‘Are these shown on the inventory?’ Gently asked.

‘Not on any inventory we’ve found,’ Brennan said. ‘But they’re not alone when it comes to that. About half this stuff isn’t on the inventory.’

‘What have the stores people got to say about it?’

‘They’re pleading ignorance.’ Brennan made a grimace. ‘They’re blaming the whole thing on Sawney. But we’ve hardly got started on them. Yet.’

Gently nodded. ‘Take charge of this stuff. Try not to handle it more than you have to.’

‘Yes,’ Brennan said. ‘Don’t worry about that, sir. I’ve done some training down at Ryton.’

Gently returned to the office. Campling sat toying with a retractable ball pen.

‘Well?’ he said, snapping the pen. ‘Is it homicide as from now?’

Gently shrugged, looked round for a seat, settled for a toolbox stood on end. Withers was squatting on another box and puffing evenly at a Lovat-pattern briar.

‘Tell me about this business,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the extent of it? How long has it gone on? What were the channels Sawney was using? Who do you think was in it with him?’

Campling grinned, snapped the pen. ‘Easy questions, difficult answers. We haven’t got to the bottom of this thing yet, but I’ll give you a run-down as far as we’ve gone. The racket was a pretty steady racket. It’d been going on for at least two years. During that time.. these are very rough figures… I’d say that Sawney netted around fifteen thousand pounds. It may have been a good deal less than that, it depends on what he got for the stuff. And it wouldn’t all be going into his pocket. There had to be someone else in the deal.’

‘How did he work it?’

Campling clicked his tongue. ‘By the oldest and hoariest dodge we know of. Really, it makes you blush with shame, just going through these old indent forms. Take a look at one.’